


One in a Million

by Blissymbolics



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Communication, Discussion of STIs, Fluff, Hypochondria, Kissing, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 12:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20948039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: Eddie understands the statistics, he's just not very adept at rationalizing them. 0.04%, 0.008%, one in a million, one in a billion, it doesn't matter. He'll always be the unlucky exception. The statistical anomaly. In a world with zero certainties, all Richie asks is to be his single constant.





	One in a Million

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samansucks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samansucks/gifts).

> In honor of all us irreverent hypochondriacs.

"Hey, Warhol, good news," Richie shouts as he walks into the living room, tossing a stapled gathering of papers in Eddie's direction, the pages hitting his shoulder before falling limp onto the couch.

"Warhol, huh. What's the joke? Besides the obvious."

Richie drops down next to him on the couch, extending an arm across the back like a creep in a movie theater.

"Apparently he was a life-long hypochondriac. And a life-long virgin."

"Fuck off," Eddie spits back, reaching to his side to grab the papers that Richie assaulted him with. "What's this then?"

"My test results," he declares proudly. "Negatives across the board, including the pregnancy test. Chlamydia, gonorrhea, AIDS, syphilis, I'm so clean even you wouldn't mind eating off me."

Richie can barely contain his smile as he slides in closer, lowering his arm from the back of the couch to drape it over Eddie's shoulders. He watches as Eddie's eyes dart across the various forms, skimming through the blood counts and bacteria cultures printed in neat columns across the pages.

"I even got the hep B test even though I'm vaccinated for it. Had to pay for that one out of pocket. But don't worry, no need to pay me back. Not with money at least," he teases as he leans in closer to press a kiss against the crux of Eddie's jaw, the stubble tickling his lips.

Of course he didn't raise any protest when Eddie asked him to get tested for every disease in the dictionary before submitting to so much as a handjob. Richie was honestly anticipating it long before the conversation came up. And admittedly, he was slightly nervous about going through with it. He hadn't been tested in over six years; but granted, he only had sex a grand total of seventeen times during that window, so he wasn't exactly what the doctors would call a "high-risk patient."

But hell, if it'll give Eddie peace of mind, he'll gladly frame his results and hang them above their bed; the same way that Eddie likes to take a picture of the stove before they leave the house so he can pull it up on his phone whenever he starts second guessing whether or not he turned it off.

Richie leans in closer, pressing their thighs together and molding himself against Eddie's side. Then he starts pressing gentle kisses down the column of his neck, searching out the steady beat of his pulse.

They've been sleeping in the same bed for the past week, exchanging kisses on cheeks, jaws, and necks while stroking each other's chests and arms, but not going any further. Not even kissing on the mouth, as Eddie's wound from Bowers is still healing, and he insists that his ingrained neurosis is strong enough to convince him that he'll somehow contract HIV from a canker sore that Richie doesn't even have.

But everything's alright now. Richie feels like he just made it to the other side of a medical emergency, even though there was no emergency to begin with. He wonders if this is what it's like for Eddie all the time. Maybe it's addictive to some extent. The monstrous anxiety finally being quelled by the proof of raw science. The euphoric high of seeing the word NEGATIVE in bold print. But like all addictions, the relief can't last very long. 

He rests his head against Eddie's shoulder, even though the position will probably give him a crick in his neck. But he ignores it and focuses on the rise and fall of Eddie's chest. The multi-faceted machine of his body, continuing to operate in spite of all the one in a million odds they're confronted with on a day-to-day basis. 

"You okay?" Richie asks after a minute or so, wondering why Eddie's being so quiet. 

Up until right now, Eddie seemed just as eager as Richie to finally get things moving. Last night he even gifted Richie with a few dirty whispers, describing in excruciating detail how badly he wanted to shove his cock in his mouth right then and there, and he continued his stream of depraved whispers as Richie jerked himself off. 

But now he looks stoic. Uncertain. And Richie suddenly feels a flash of panic as he realizes that he might've read something on the results incorrectly.

His eyes dart down to the paper clutched in Eddie's hand: the HIV results.

Fuck no.

Sweat breaks across his forehead as he skims across the page, erratic with raw fear that he hasn't felt since they confronted Pennywise.

But no, the big bold NEGATIVE is right where it's supposed to be. Right where it was when he read the form five minutes ago. He's fine. Of course he's fine.

"Eds, you're freaking me out, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Eddie replies quickly, shaking himself out of whatever trance he was just in. "It's stupid."

"Stupider than making me get tested for diseases that haven't been around since the 17th century?"

Eddies gives a quirk of a smile. "Yeah, stupider than that."

"Okay, spit it out then," he says, jostling Eddie's shoulder a bit while trying to deter his own imagination from running wild with worst case scenarios. Attempting to quash his all too human fear that Eddie doesn't actually want him. Insecurity suddenly replacing the spike of adrenaline that passed through him a minute ago.

Eddie lowers the papers to his lap, the frown lines between his eyebrows forming their own canyons.

"You said you slept with a girl a couple months back, right? Do you remember _exactly _how long ago it was?"

Richie can't help but buckle a bit in relief, thankful that his question wasn't anything deeper.

Eddie's only been staying at his place for three weeks, but Richie has already grown accustomed to his left field questions. Usually harmless ones regarding his cleaning and dietary habits, but sometimes Eddie will ask questions about his actual emotional state, which are far more difficult to answer than the ones about his water purification system or sex life.

"Um... let me think." He scours his memory, trying to bring up a mental calendar on the spot. "It was definitely a Thursday. Late July I think. So two, two and a half months ago? It was just a one-time thing with an acquaintance. And we were totally safe. Nothing risky, nothing kinky. We basically had old Victorian couple sex then passed out from our own boredom. Why?"

Again, a small smile returns to Eddie's face, but he keeps his eyes averted.

"It's just that... HIV can take up to three months to appear on screenings. And those first three months are when you're most infectious. Twenty-six times more infectious to be precise. I mean, I know that for vaginal penetration you only have like a 0.04% chance of contracting it, and using a condom reduces that by 80% down to 0.008, but–"

"Ed, it's okay," Richie cuts him off before he feels the need to reach for his inhaler. "I'll go back in a few weeks and get tested again. It's alright," he says as gently as he can, hoping that his naturally nasal tone doesn't come across as annoyance or anger.

Thankfully, Eddie seems to relax, his head reclining back against the couch.

"Thank you. I'm sorry."

"Hey, you've made far stupider requests. Remember when we were kids and you forgot your lunch so you made me sneak out of school to run down to the gas station with you to buy some trail mix because you didn't trust the cafeteria food?"

Eddie lets out a short laugh, stroking his thumb across Richie's knuckles. "And then I couldn't even eat it because that was the week I thought I had an almond allergy."

"And there weren't even any almonds in the bag. But you were convinced that some residue might've snuck its way in during the manufacturing process."

"Yeah. I'd read an article about it," Eddie laughs, the intensity in his posture unwinding as an easy smile spreads across his face.

Richie smiles back as he reaches forward to brush back the hair around his temples.

"And then I gave you my lunch and ate the trail mix myself."

"And started fucking with me by pretending your throat was swelling shut."

"And you bought it."

"For half a second, tops. Fuck, I can't believe I forgot all that."

"As the kids say: same."

Richie continues gently brushing back his hair as another wave of memories floods back, which has been happening periodically over the last couple weeks. Empty gaps suddenly filling in like cement. Sounds and images skimming across his vision like the reel of an old film. Eddie's been experiencing the same thing. Sometimes a look is all it'll take to trigger a FEMA worthy deluge of recollections. Snapshots of Eddie as he used to be. Long dormant feelings knocking him to the floor with regret for not reaching out sooner, but also gratefulness for what he has now.

"I'm sorry," Eddie apologizes again. "I know it's a pain in the ass."

"Seriously dude, it's not a big deal. It's just a finger prick, and the results take like ten minutes. I'll be in and out before anyone can tweet about it."

"You shouldn't underestimate people like that," Eddie laughs, lifting their joined hands and examining them in the racking light. "My fingertips used to be sore all the time."

"Oh yeah, why's that? Frostbite? Flesh-eating skin cells? Or did you just finger yourself _that much__?"  
_

"Stop projecting," Eddie deadpans while playfully scratching the back of Richie's hand in mock punishment.

Richie stares at their linked hands; Eddie's busted nails complimented by Richie's gnarled and bruised knuckles, both still healing from their escapades in Derry.

Then Eddie sighs. A melancholy sigh. As if he were preparing to retire to his bed chamber to succumb to tuberculosis.

"I used to get tested every month, y'know. Up until recently."

Richie can't help but raise his eyebrows in surprise. How recent is he talking? Marriage recent? But he and Myra have been married for four years now. But he supposes that does qualify as "recent" within the context of twenty-seven years.

"Wow, I had no idea you were such a bicycle."

"A bicycle?"

"Yeah. 'Cause you're always getting ridden."

"I fucking hate you," he mumbles affectionately. Then he goes silent, staring off at the California sunlight pouring through the ceiling-high windows.

Richie tries to make sense of what Eddie just disclosed. He knows Eddie's health anxiety is irrational to say the least, but why did he feel the need to get tested every single month? He couldn't have had _that _many partners, considering that he needed Richie to get a full-scale autopsy just to feel comfortable with kissing.

But fortunately, Eddie goes on without any prompting.

"Whenever I started dating someone, I'd get tested monthly without telling them. Same with Myra. Even after we got married."

"Oh. Were you worried they were cheating on you?"

Eddie lets out a snort. "It'd be naive to think they _weren't _cheating on me."

"Ed..."

"Hey, don't give me that pity party tone. It was just a coping mechanism. Gave me peace of mind. Besides, my doctor thought I was a fucking stud."

Richie lets out a small laugh, still trying to grapple with this information. Some things he can understand. He can understand taking pictures of the stove, sending back chicken if it looks slightly pink, and even using a placebo inhaler to help with panic attacks. But did Eddie really feel so little trust for his partners, his own wife, that monthly testing was the only way to alleviate his anxiety?

What's more, is it going to be the same way with Richie?

Eddie lets out a sigh, turning his gaze towards the ceiling. "I didn't actually think Myra was cheating on me. Or any of the others really. I was never suspicious of them or anything. But I know the statistics. I know that two-thirds of HIV infections are spread through relationships. I know that spousal STD infections are commonly used as evidence in securing divorce settlements. I know the statistics, and I'm not very good at rationalizing them."

Now _that _Richie can understand. He understands that Eddie's brain is constantly engaging in self-sabotage efforts, trying to persuade him that he'll always be the outlier skewing the dataset. He's the one in a billion unlucky lottery winner. Whether it's a rare form of cancer, a genetic defect, or that weird disease that causes your muscles to turn into bone; whatever it is, Eddie's probably embodied it.

Besides, Richie knows that his marriage was – is – dysfunctional to say the least. Maybe getting tested was an outlet for his stress. A way to keep himself placated in the midst of dissatisfaction. The high of getting those negative results. That brief rush where he could feel content in his body for a few precious moments. 

Richie can understand that.

"Yeah..." Eddie hums. "So you can imagine how much it fucked me up when I came back positive for gonorrhea seven months ago."

Richie instantly goes rigid, realization shooting through him as he processes what Eddie just said. He knows that Eddie just told him that he doesn't want any pity, but... Jesus Christ.

"Ed–"

"I fucking lost it," Eddie cuts him off before he can get a word out. "But honestly, I didn't even care that she cheated on me. I still don't know who the guy was and I don't care. I was just so fucking angry that she got me sick. I was a wreck for weeks, convinced I had the strain that's resistant to antibiotics. It cleared up just fine, but..." he trails off, his voice starting to crack.

"How could you stay with her after that?" Richie asks gently, hoping that it doesn't come across like an accusation.

Eddie just shrugs.

"I don't know. I knew it was just a matter of time before I had to leave. I was just hoping she'd leave first."

Richie hums in acknowledgement. Even when they were staying at the inn in Derry, he could sense to some degree that if they survived, Eddie had no intention of returning to his apartment in New York. His suitcases were already packed, so it was just a matter of tetrising them into Richie's rental car and shipping them out to L.A. It was raw comedy gold when he asked Eddie if he wanted to crash on his couch for a while, as if his couch wasn't literally on the other side of the country.

Eddie hasn't talked much about his marriage since they arrived, and Richie hasn't pushed him. He even admirably stopped joking about it after Eddie threw a used swiffer pad at his face. Sure, he had his conspiracy theories, but felt fairly certain that raw incompatibility and mommy issues were the main culprits.

He never imagined something this awful though. Sure, there are far worse things someone can do besides cheat. But for Eddie, endangering his health – even by proxy – is the worst betrayal Richie can conceive of. And his wife must have known that too.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Richie says, as that seems to be the default line people like to put out in these types of situations. "But hey, if you need to keep getting tested, every month, week, or day, I'll drive you to the appointments myself."

Eddie lets out a short laugh. "Give me a break. As if you could actually get laid by anyone besides me."

"Wicked self-own," Richie laughs in return.

God, he wants to kiss him so bad. He wants to feel the softness of his lips surrounded by the grit of stubble. He wants to run his tongue along his upper lip and soak in the carbon dioxide leaving his lungs. He wants to make him feel thankful that he has a body, something that's capable of making him feel good, and not just a self-destructive lump of unobedient cells. He wants–"

Just then, Eddie leans forward to press their lips together, and Richie's eyes go so wide they might just pop out of his head. 

Richie obediently keeps his mouth closed as Eddie gently glides across his chapped lips before drawing away with a playful lick that gives Richie the death rattles. 

Everything short circuits. The obnoxious never-ending stand up monologue in his head comes to a screeching halt. Meanwhile, Eddie is looking at him with the biggest shit-eating grin.

"So you can jerk off in front of me, but one kiss and suddenly you're scared of cooties?"

Richie shakes himself out of his stupor, involuntarily reaching up to nervously adjust his glasses.

"You must be rubbing off on me."

Eddie smiles and leans in again, this time mouthing at the spot below his ear, and Richie graciously bends his neck to the side to grant him better access.

"Was that an invitation?"

**Author's Note:**

> With the amount of medical googling I had to do I’m pretty sure the feds tracking my computer think I’m dead by now.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1) / [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/blissymbolics)


End file.
